Tendrils of Tradition
by Literary Melody
Summary: A one-shot dedicated to RainbowBright333 for being the 300th reviewer on my other story "The Beautifully Dark Sister" In this one-shot Arathell's youth comes more into light through a conversation with her mother about a tradition most important to Elves. Story to accompany BDS.
**Hi there, everyone! This is a one-shot dedicated to RainbrowBright333 for being the 300th reviewer on my main story, The Beautifully Dark Sister. This particular one-shot does feature my main OC from that story so for anyone not reading BDS, it may be slightly confusing. But hopefully, you'll still be able to enjoy it anyway!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own Arathell. I do not own Lord of the Rings or even the wonderful idea that sparked the start of this little beauty!**

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Arathell kicked the books around on the floor with lazy boredom. She had been at it for hours now if the setting sun outside of her window was any indication. With a quick sigh, she pulled the curtains shut and walked to her many candles, lighting each of them thoughtlessly before returning back to the books on the floor.

Her fingers were twitching – aching for something, but it did not matter to her father. A sword was what she craved, heavy in her hand but light on her mind. He had ignored her thirty years ago when she first drew up the request to be a soldier like her older brothers, but Elrond's rebuttal had been swift and left no room for argument.

So now, she dwindled in her room, stubborn and perhaps a little childish, but what else was there to do? She was young still – not even two centuries, so any matter of diplomacy or politics was just as forbidden. She did not have the wisdom or know-how to rule a land, and at the moment, she didn't want that duty either.

Arathell supposed she could take up embroidery as her older sister, Arwen had done. The Evenstar was exceptionally proficient at it, and more than once, the maids had told her that she herself would likely be just as good as Arwen at the trade.

It stung at her pride too much to do anything like that, however. She wanted a sword – a blade sharp and deadly. She craved renown and respect from those around her. Taking a needle and stabbing fabric seemed pathetic and would imply that she was accepting her fate.

Her alternative was to keep her mind – now her only weapon – as sharp as possible. Books were her friends, despite their abandoned state on the floor. Each one had been read cover to cover many times now, but again, her pride refused to ask the others for more.

She stared disdainfully at the circle of books she had created, wondering which memorized work she would read next.

A knock interrupted her thoughts and she jumped a little at the sudden sound. It was a familiar knock, one that was not exactly necessary, but privacy was never something that her mother would try to steal from her.

"What?" Arathell called, voice slightly rough from lack of use.

Her mother practically glided into the room, silver-gold hair waving into the room just as she knew the moon outside her window took up the sun's throne in the sky. Her eyes were like stars as they sought out Arathell's earth-toned brown ones. A sigh instantly fell from the matriarch, a greeting that had been just as memorized as the words on the pages littered on the floor. She bent to pick one up, disturbing the pattern and Arathell had to bite her tongue to keep herself from reprimanding her. "For someone who adores the written word so much, one would think you would take better care of them."

"It is the covers that protect them," Arathell refuted, watching as her mother continued withdrawing the books from the marble floor. Arathell rolled her eyes and folded her arms. It was a conversation just as scripted as everything else in her world. Arathell hated it – hated not having control over the environment and her fate. Her mother, while exceedingly loving and wishing for nothing more than the return of her reclusive daughter, could still not understand that the books scattered on the floor were her only tool to control the world. The words that Arathell did indeed adore were her world, and she was their goddess, orchestrating their places and organizing them however she wanted. At the moment, her mother completely destroyed the fantasy – the safety-hatch and it made the fire inside of Arathell gut burn. "What did you want?"

Celebrían did not seem bothered by her forwardness, but she saw her mother's lower lip purse for a fraction of a second. "You have always been so unruly," her mother finally answered, setting the last of the books away on the once empty bookshelf. "Your One will surely have to be messy as well to tolerate it."

"Mother!" Arathell snapped.

Celebrían jumped a little and spun to look at her. Her mother's proud head finally fell a little and she sighed. "I am sorry if my presence upsets you. I never mean for that." Arathell's tensed shoulders fell with guilt at the sadness in her mother's voice. "It simply does not seem right that I should not know my daughter, especially given that she lives in my own house. I understand that you believe your father is being unjust, but –"

"I do not want to hear you argue on his behalf," Arathell interrupted. "Let his words speak through him and not through his wife."

Her mother sighed again with a nod and finally moved throughout the room, coming at last to stand by the vanity. Her pale fingers danced along all of the hair pieces and circlets, maybe wondering why her daughter rejected her heritage so much. Her fingers at last landed on Arathell's comb, and she lifted the piece carefully. "Come here," she called. Arathell scoffed and did not move, thinking the game of dress-up was a chore from her even more childish years. "Arathell, come here, please," her mother called again.

Hesitantly, Arathell forced herself to walk to her mother, hands instantly pressing down on her shoulders to force her to seat in her chair, looking at herself in the mirror. Celebrían smiled, most definitely pleased and began weaving the comb in her hair. "This is silly," Arathell commented after some time of silence. Despite her statement, however, Arathell was equally intrigued. This was not something that they had done before and the freshness of a new activity was relieving.

"Hair is very sacred to the Elves, Arathell," her mother cautioned. Her fingers moved rapidly after the comb had been abandoned on the vanity. Arathell could see her mother twisting and turning all of her hair into a heavy braid. "It is a piece of our culture that belongs only to our race, and you must always remember that."

"Why?" Arathell drawled, fighting desperately to sound bored.

"The Valar choose the length of it," Celebrían answered hurriedly. "It never changes – always the same length. It is an intimate gift to allow someone to touch your hair. Family and lovers are often the only ones permitted within our race." Arathell still was confused and she knew her mother could tell. "Hair is wild, Arathell. It is free and reckless and pure. Its length mirrors the personality of the one bearing it – your patience, your proclivity for adventure… it is your spirit embodied. To allow anyone to tame it – whether by brushing or decorating or even touching, you forsake that piece of freedom, that wildness. It is a mighty gift and should never be taken lightly."

Arathell's eyes found their way to the length of her mother's hair, seeing that it was shorter than many Elves' yet still was incredibly beautiful. It did not fall much past her shoulders, making her look even younger and naïve.

Naturally, her eyes then went to her own hair, seeing that it was long and full, dwindling at the small of her back. It was as straight as a board, harsh and unforgiving and unwilling to change. She looked defensive next to the angelic face of her mother.

"Has it always been so important?" Arathell asked, turning in her chair to look at her mother directly. Celebrían's hands fell from her daughter's hair and the beginnings of the braid unwound themselves to fall straight along with its neighboring tendrils.

Her mother smiled and reached to trace her cheek a little. "I do not recall ever reading in history when the tradition began. It was something my mother taught me when I was your age, saying that it had been passed onto her as well. I merely thought –" She stopped and looked unsure. "Arathell, I wish I knew you better. I wish that this moment where you learn of our culture was more…"

"Emotional?" Arathell guessed. Celebrían shrugged. She found herself reaching for her mother's hands, shocking both of them. "I wish that it was as well," she admitted, feeling a wave of regret fall over her. It was not enough to forsake her desire for a sword, but it made her ache to know she had caused her own mother such a pain. "I am glad that you told me though," she mentioned. Celebrían smiled and squeezed her hand. "I am likewise just as glad to know that my mother has not forsaken me."

Her mother's head snapped up and met Arathell sad gaze with an icy fire burning in her eyes. "You are my daughter, Arathell. I was the first to hold you, and I was the first to love you. You and your brothers and sister are my world. I do not care what relations you have with your father, though I wish this ridiculous stubbornness on both of your parts would cease. But never think for a moment that you do not have my love. Forsake my own blood – how preposterous." Arathell watched her mother's stern face melt away again. Regardless of the gentle warmth her mother often exuded, Celebrían was no weakling. Power ran through her like roots through the earth and just as deeply besides. Her mother was stronger than many people realized and it made Arathell proud to know that it was this woman who had given her life.

She chuckled a little once Celebrían's fire had cooled and settled again, leaning back in her chair and casting a glance at the bookshelf. "Mother?" she asked carefully.

"Hmm?"

"Would it be possible if I were to have more books here with me?"

"Only if you promise that they will not live on the floor."

"I won't promise that," Arathell said resolutely.

"I'll have some brought up immediately."

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 **There it is! I hope you like it Julianne! I found that it was great fun! I hope it wasn't too dark, but there weren't many exceedingly happy moments in Arathell's childhood, and her mother left pretty early on, so… I must say, writing Immature Arathell was quite the treat and I am glad that I got to revisit her! Thanks for the idea and the opportunity! Let me know what you think!**

 **And anyone else: please feel free to check out The Beautifully Dark Sister, also written by me that tells Arathell's story in full!**

 **Love you all lots!**

 **LM**


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